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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110763">I Think I'm in Love with You (A Johnlock Fanfiction)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/drarryjohnlock1711/pseuds/drarryjohnlock1711'>drarryjohnlock1711</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bisexual John Watson, Coming Out, Confessing Feelings for Each Other, Cute little things, Dancing, Deductions, Dialogue Heavy, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ, M/M, Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, Maybe some angst, Mentions the War, Mind Palace, New Relationship, Original Story Cases, Same-Sex Couple, Sherlock is Afraid of Getting Things Wrong, Sherlock is bored, Shooting Guns, So many emotions, Solving crimes, Some Swearing, Suggestive Dialogue, Talks About Murder and Suicide, fake suicide, flatmates, in the closet, mentions drugs, supportive parents</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:41:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110763</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/drarryjohnlock1711/pseuds/drarryjohnlock1711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This Fanfiction is going to be me re-writing BBC's Sherlock and putting in Johnlock. This is a Johnlock Fanfiction. This is my first time writing Fanfiction, so I'm sorry if it isn't any good/has some mistakes. Constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated (:</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello reader,<br/>First off, I would like to say THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading this Fanfiction and I really hope you enjoy it. Second, this is my first time writing Fanfiction so I'm sorry if it isn't any good (please comment your Constructive Criticism). Third, this work and the ideas that I came up with belong to me (but the characters and original story do not) so please do not copy this story UNLESS I've given you permission to translate it. The fourth and final thing I would like to say before you start reading is that I'm not sure what my updating schedule will be as my life can get busy sometimes so please be patient with me.</p><p>Enjoy the story!</p><p>-Mack ♥</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This chapter is a re-cap of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's meeting. It isn't very different from the show. I will be changing more and more details as I get further into the story.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello reader,<br/>First off, I would like to say THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading this Fanfiction and I really hope you enjoy it. This is my first time writing Fanfiction so I'm sorry if it isn't any good (please comment your Constructive Criticism). I'm sorry in advance that it is such a short chapter. I'm trying to pace myself and break each episode up into chunks. I'm hoping to write longer chapters in the future. This work and the ideas that I came up with belong to me (but the characters and original story do not) so please do not copy this story UNLESS I've given you permission to translate it. I'm not sure what my updating schedule will be as my life can get busy sometimes so please be patient with me. Also, I had the idea to do P.O.V.'s (alternating between John and Sherlock every chapter) so please let me know what you think in the comments. I'm not going to change this chapter to a P.O.V. though, because I really like how it turned out. Okay, I'm going to stop talking now and let you read the story (:<br/>Enjoy the story!<br/>-Mack ♥</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>  John is walking (well more like hobbling as he walks with a cane) through the park when he hears his name being called out by a familiar voice:</p><p>  “John! John Watson!'' said the voice. The man grabs John's hand and shakes it. “Stamford. Mike Stamford, we were at Barts together.”</p><p>  “Yes. Sorry, yes, Mike, hello!” said John.</p><p>  “I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”</p><p>  “I got shot.”</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  John and Mike decided to get a coffee and catch up. Presently, they are sitting on a park bench, talking.</p><p>  “You’re still at Barts then?” asked John.</p><p>  “Teaching now - bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them.” Both men laugh. “What about you? Staying in town until you can get yourself sorted?” asked Mike.</p><p>  John shakes his head and says “Can’t afford London on an army pension.”</p><p>  “But you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. Not the John Watson I know!”</p><p>  John was about to say that he wasn’t the John Watson he knew, but he decided against it. He did not want to get into any of that.</p><p>  “Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked.</p><p>  John gives him a look and says “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”</p><p>  “Couldn’t you get a flatshare or something?”</p><p>  “Who’d want <em>me</em> for a flatmate?”</p><p>  To this, Mike just gives a little laugh.</p><p>  “What?” asked John, who was very confused.</p><p>  “It’s just, you’re the second person to say that to me today,” said Mike.</p><p>  John was intrigued. In spite of himself, he asked “Who was the first?”</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  John and Mike walk into a room in St. Barts to see a man that is tall, lean, and is plainly but neatly dressed working at a microscope. This man is Sherlock Holmes. Without even glancing away from his microscope, Sherlock asks “Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine.”</p><p>  “What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked.</p><p>  “I’d rather text,” Sherlock states plainly.</p><p>  “Sorry. I left it in my coat.”</p><p>  John reaches in his pocket and says “Here. Use mine.”</p><p>  “Oh. Umm, thank you,” says Sherlock before getting up to take the phone.</p><p>  Mike begins to introduce John to Sherlock, who has barely glanced at John. “This is an old friend of mine - John Watson.”</p><p>  “Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, still texting on the phone and is not looking up.</p><p>  “...I’m sorry?” John asked, utterly confused.</p><p>  “Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeated.</p><p>  “Umm… Afghanistan. I’m sorry, how did you - ?” but John didn’t finish as Molly Hooper came through the door bearing coffee.</p><p>  “Ah, Molly! Coffee, thank you. You were wearing lipstick before. What happened to the lipstick?” Sherlock asked.</p><p>  “It… umm… it wasn’t working for me.” Molly stuttered.</p><p>  “Really? I thought it was a big improvement - mouth’s too small now.” Sherlock said.</p><p>  Molly stares at the completely oblivious Sherlock. “...Okay,” she says. She nods shyly at the other two men and leaves the room as Sherlock tosses the phone back to John.</p><p>  “How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asks John.</p><p>  “I’m sorry, what?” John asked, again confused.</p><p>  “I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end - would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”</p><p>  John turns to Mike and asks “Did you tell him about me?”</p><p>  “Nope. Not a word.” Mike replied, who knows that this is normal.</p><p>  “...Then who said anything about flatmates?”</p><p>  “I did,” Sherlock answered. “I said to Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now he shows up just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”</p><p>  “...How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked Sherlock, but Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was pulling on his Belstaff coat.</p><p>  “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London and I think together we could afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening at 7 ‘o’clock.” Sherlock informed John as he walked towards the door. “Sorry, I’ve got to dash. I think I’ve left my riding crop in the mortuary.”</p><p>  “Is that it?” John asks.</p><p>  “Is that what?” Sherlock turns back around to face John.</p><p>  “Well, we’ve just met and we’re going to go look at a flat together??” John asks with extreme surprise and confusion.</p><p>  “Problem?” Sherlock asks flatly.</p><p>  “We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, and I don’t even know your <em>name</em>.” John states.</p><p>  Sherlock looks at him, a tiny smile on his face. He loves this bit. “I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother with a bit of money who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him - possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic - quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” </p><p>  Sherlock turns on his heel and begins walking out the door as John is staring at him in utter astonishment thinking “<em>What the bloody hell just happened??</em>” Sherlock turns and says “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” Sherlock winks at John as he says “Afternoon.” and he is out the door.</p><p>  John is still amazed when Mike says “Yep. He’s <em>always</em> like that.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This chapter is in John's P.O.V. and it's the scene where they meet at 221B Baker Street to look at the flat. I've added John's thoughts in so that going to be the change that I've made in this chapter.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just wanted to say thank you again to everyone who's reading this. I have 23 reads and 3 kudos already! I'm so excited for this story and I have a lot of plans. I have decided to do the P.O.V. thing (as you will be able to see when you start reading) and I really liked it. Please let me know your thoughts on what I've written so far and your ideas for future chapters in the comments! All feedback and suggestions are welcomed and appreciated! I hope you enjoy this chapter and I'm hoping to have the next chapter out soon so stay tuned (:<br/>- Mack ♥</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>(John’s P.O.V.)</p><p> </p><p>  I was about to knock on the door of 221B Baker Street when I heard a familiar deep voice from behind me that said “Hi.” I turned around to see the man I met yesterday, Sherlock Holmes, getting out of a cab and paying the cabbie. He looks just as attractive as yesterday with his cheekbones and Belstaff and deep voice and… wait what am I thinking? I am <em>NOT</em> gay! I better say something before I make a real idiot of myself. “Hello. Mr. Holmes!” I say, hoping that I don’t sound like a bigger idiot than I already feel.</p><p>  “Oh please, call me Sherlock.” He replies as we shake hands.</p><p>  There’s a quick moment of silence before I say “Prime spot. Got to be expensive.” </p><p>  Sherlock who is presently knocking on the door says “The landlady, Ms. Hudson, is giving me a special deal. She owes me a favour - a few years ago her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida and I was able to help out.”</p><p>  I gave him a skeptical look. “You stopped her husband from being executed?”</p><p>  “Oh, no. I ensured it.” He states just as the door opens and a cheerful, older woman comes out who I presume is Ms. Hudson.</p><p>  “Sherlock!” She exclaims while throwing her arms around him.</p><p>  “Ms. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock says while pointing towards me.</p><p>  Ms. Hudson turns towards me, smiles, and says “Lovely to meet you.” and then she invites both of us to come inside.</p><p>  When we get inside, we walk into the sitting room of the flat. Right now, it's a huge mess and there’s rubbish all throughout the flat, but I think it could turn out very nice, so I say the latter. Sherlock agreed. Then at the same time, I said “As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out.” and he says “So I went ahead and moved in.” There’s an awkward pause as we turn to look at each other.</p><p>  “Ahem, uh, obviously I can tidy things up a bit,” Sherlock informed me, with a bit of a stutter.</p><p>  “That’s a skull,” I state, looking over at the mantlepiece.</p><p>  “He’s a friend of mine. Well, I say friend…” He trails off as Ms. Hudson comes bustling into the room.</p><p>  “So, what do you think, Dr. Watson - there’s another bedroom upstairs.” She gives us both a knowing look. “If you’ll be needing two bedrooms…”</p><p>  Oh my god, can she read minds? Or what else did Sherlock deduce and tell her? I just keep telling myself “<em>Not gay. Not gay. Not gay!</em>”. I try to put on a sort of affronted look (though I’m not sure if I managed to do that) and I say “Uh, Of course we’ll, uh, be needing two bedrooms.”</p><p>  Good thing Ms. Hudson stays just as smiley and cheerful as always. “Don’t worry there are all sorts around here…” She informed me but she trailed off as she began to look around the room. She turns to Sherlock and says “Oh Sherlock, look at the mess you’ve made.” With that, she heads towards the kitchen, tidying on her way over.</p><p>  I notice Sherlock is busy at his desk. I’m looking at him while thinking about what I read when I looked him up last night. I wait a moment before I decide to say something. “I, uh, looked you up on the Internet last night,” I told him.</p><p>  “Anything interesting?” He asks me, looking up from what he was doing at his desk (he was on the computer, I believe.)</p><p>  “I found your website - ‘The Science of Deduction’."</p><p>  “Well, what did you think?”</p><p>  “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”</p><p>  “Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and the drinking habits of your brother in your mobile phone.” This still amazes me! I just don’t get how he does it. I ask “How?” but I don’t get an answer as Ms. Hudson just came into the room, a newspaper in her hands that she’s found on the floor.</p><p>  “What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? I thought that would be right up your street. Three of them, exactly the same…” She stops talking as she sees Sherlock walking over to the window. He’s looking at something.</p><p>  “Four. There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time…”</p><p>  “A fourth?” Ms. Hudson asked, with a bit of surprise and worry in her voice.</p><p>  We hear feet bounding up the stairs and suddenly a man appears in the doorway.</p><p>  “Where?” Sherlock asks the man.</p><p>  “Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.” The man replied.</p><p>  “What’s different about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something new.”</p><p>  “Well, you know how they never leave notes?”</p><p>  “Yeah.”</p><p>  “This one did.” The man states, and you can tell that Sherlock is really interested by this now. “So, will you come?”</p><p>  “Who’s on forensics?”</p><p>  There’s a pause before the man answers. “Anderson.”</p><p>  “Ugh, Anderson won’t work with me,” Sherlock says, clearly a bit frustrated.</p><p>  “He won’t be your <em>assistant</em>.”</p><p>  “But I <em>need </em>an assistant.”</p><p>  “Will you come?” The man asks again with hope.</p><p>  “Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind you.” Sherlock replies.</p><p>  “Thank you!” The man says, nods at Ms. Hudson and I, and then leaves.</p><p>  I’m thunderstruck, Ms. Hudson has a faint look of knowing on her face and Sherlock cheers. He’s extremely excited.</p><p>  “<em>Brilliant!</em>” He exclaims while jumping in the air. “<em>Yes!</em>” He actually looks quite cute when he does this. It’s perfectly normal for me to think that without being gay, right? Right. “And I thought it was going to be a boring evening. Serial suicides, and now a note - oh, it’s Christmas!” Now he’s dashing for the door. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late - might need some food.”</p><p>  “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” Ms. Hudson informs him.</p><p>  “Something cold is fine. John, make yourself at home - have a cuppa! Don’t wait up!” With that, he’s gone. I pick up the newspaper again to read about these suicides and I sit down. I notice that there’s a picture of the man that was here a couple of minutes ago, <em>D.I. Lestrade</em>. Ms. Hudson comes back into the room.</p><p>  “Oh, look at him, dashing about. <em>My</em> husband was just the same. But you’re more the sitting down type, I can tell. I’ll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.”</p><p>  I have a sudden flash of anger and I yell “<em>Damn my leg!</em>”. I’ve obviously startled Ms. Hudson and I rush into a series of apologies. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s just sometimes ... bloody thing.”</p><p>  “Oh, I understand, dear. I’ve got a hip.” </p><p>  “A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.”</p><p>  She heads for the door and says “Just this one, dear. I’m not your housekeeper.</p><p>  “And some biscuits too, if you have them,” I say, distracted by the newspaper and annoyed with myself.</p><p>  “<em>Not</em> your housekeeper.” She reminds me.</p><p>  I put down the newspaper and I’m frowning. This Sherlock Holmes, who the hell is he? How could he know everything about me at just one quick glance? And now I think I’m falling for him, but I am <em>not</em> gay, so I’m not sure. I take my phone out of my jacket and turn it around in my hands, examining it. I’m still amazed when a voice startles me.</p><p>  “You’re a doctor.” Sherlock is back, leaning in the doorway. “In fact, you’re an <em>army</em> doctor.”</p><p>  “Yes,” I reply, finding myself standing. Sherlock is moving into the room, looking at me.</p><p>  “Any good?” He asks.</p><p>  “Very good,” I answer.</p><p>  “Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths?”</p><p>  “Well, yes.”</p><p>  “Bit of trouble too, I bet.”</p><p>  “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” We stand facing each other for a moment, our faces quite close. I look at his lips in spite of myself. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for but I know something is about to happen. Sherlock looks like he’s considering something.</p><p>  “Want to see some more?” Sherlock asks me.</p><p>  “Oh, God, yes.” I blurt out. Maybe it was a bit too eager.</p><p>  “Grab your coat.” He tells me as we both are racing out the door.</p><p>  We clatter down the stairs and Ms. Hudson comes out of a door that’s at the foot of the stairs. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the cuppa - off out,” I tell her.</p><p>  “Both of you?” She asks.</p><p>  “Impossible suicides - four of them. No point in sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!” Sherlock exclaims, walking over to Ms. Hudson and giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.</p><p>  “Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.” She says as she shoo’s us towards the door.</p><p>  “Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is <em>on!</em>” With that, Sherlock and I are out the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This chapter takes place at the scene of the crime and it's mainly focusing on Sherlock's deductions.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys! I wanted to have this chapter out yesterday, but my power went out and I wasn't able to work on it. I hope the long chapter makes up for it (: The next chapter might take a little while for me to post as well, but we'll see. As always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated.</p><p>Enjoy,<br/>-Mack ♥</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>(Sherlock’s P.O.V.)</p><p> </p><p>  John and I have just walked out of 221B Baker Street and now I’m out in the street yelling for a taxi. John is standing beside me while we wait. John is a very good looking man, whom I found myself attracted to at once. He walks with a cane due to his psychosomatic limp but stands like he forgets about it and he’s a man of the military. I’ve always known that I was gay, but I’ve never really had <em>feelings</em> for someone before and I’ve never been in a relationship, but with John, it’s different. I think I’m falling for him, but I don’t want to tell him that I like him or that I’m gay because I don’t know his views on the topic and I don’t want to scare him away. I know it’s perfectly fine to be gay but I just don’t want to lose John. </p><p>  A taxi has just pulled up so I open the door and get inside, wait for John to get in as well, and then we’re off.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  It’s now dark outside and we’re still riding in the taxi. I’m typing on my cell phone. John is sitting beside me and he keeps looking back and forth from the window to me. I’m making it look like I don’t know he has questions, but I do. I’ve decided to bring it up. “Okay, you’ve got questions,” I say suddenly.</p><p>  “Yeah, uh, where are we going?” John asks, looking at me.</p><p>  “Crime scene, next.”</p><p>  “Who are you and what do you do?”</p><p>  “What do you think?”</p><p>  “I’d say private detective -”</p><p>  “But?” I ask him.</p><p>  “But the police don’t go to private detectives.”</p><p>  “I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job.” I inform him.</p><p>  “What does that mean?”</p><p>  “It means that when the police are out of their depth - which is <em>always</em> - they consult me.</p><p>  “But the police don’t consult amateurs,” John says with a little laugh.</p><p>  I glance at him, a tiny smile growing on my face. I’m about to go into detail about all my deductions. I love this bit. “When I first met you yesterday, I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'. You seemed surprised.”</p><p>  “Yeah, uh, how did you know?”</p><p>  “I didn’t know. I saw. The haircut and the way you hold yourself says military - but your conversation as you entered the room - says you trained at Barts. So, army doctor. Obvious! Your face is tanned, but there’s no tan above the wrists You’ve been abroad, but no sunbathing. Your limp is really bad when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it - so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the circumstances of the original injury were traumatizing - wounded in action then. Wounded in action, a suntan. Afghanistan or Iraq?”</p><p>  “You said I had a therapist,” Johns says.</p><p>  “You’ve got psychosomatic limp, of course you’ve got a therapist. Then there’s your brother -” I take John’s phone. “Your phone. Expensive, email enabled, mp3 player - you’re looking for a flatshare, you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift then. Scratches - not just one, but many over time. Been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man in front of me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so there’s been a previous owner. Next bit’s easy - you know it already.”</p><p>  “The engraving.” John states.</p><p>  “Yes,” I reply. “Harry Watson - clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live - unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to. So - brother it is. Now Clara, who’s Clara - three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment, the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model’s only six months old. It’s a marriage in trouble then - six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he’d probably have kept the phone - people do, sentiment - but no, he wanted rid of it: he left her. He gave the phone to you - that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help - that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don’t like his drinking -”</p><p>  “How can you possibly know about the drinking?” John asks me.</p><p>  “Shot in the dark - good one though. The power connection. Tiny little scuff marks all round it - he plugs it in every night to recharge, but his hands are shaking. Never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them.” I toss John’s phone back to him. “There you go, you see? You were right.”</p><p>  “I was right? Right about what?”</p><p>  “The police don’t consult amateurs.” I finish, clearly getting my point across. I go back to typing on my phone, while John stares at me. </p><p>  After a moment or two, John says “That was… amazing.” I turn to stare at John who is now looking out the window. I’m shocked. No one has ever said that to me before, but I’m not complaining. Now there’s one more reason that I’m falling for John and I’m not sure how to stop it.</p><p>  I decided I better say something. “Do you really think so?” I asked him.</p><p>  “Well, of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”</p><p>  “That’s not what people usually say,” I tell him.</p><p>  “What do people usually say?”</p><p>  “Piss off.” With that, we both turn to look out our respective windows, laughing and smiling to ourselves.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  The cab slowed to a halt and we both got out of the cab. There are police and flashing lights from the sirens everywhere. You can hear a siren in the distance. Presently, John and I are walking towards the house of the crime scene.</p><p>  “Did I get anything wrong?” I ask John.</p><p>  “Harry and I don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago, they’re getting a divorce. Harry’s a drinker -”</p><p>  “Spot on, then! Didn’t expect to be right about everything.” I say interrupting John.</p><p>  “- Harry is short for Harriet.” John finishes. I stop walking. John stops as well to wait up for me.</p><p>  “... Harry is your <em>sister</em>.” I realize.</p><p>  John is looking around at the police and police vehicles with a bit of a confused and worried look on his face. “Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” He asks me.</p><p>  I don’t reply. “Your <em>sister</em>,” I repeat.</p><p>  “No, seriously, why am I here?” John asks again.</p><p>  “There’s always something!” I say as we walk toward the police tape that blocks us from the scene of the crime. I see a familiar face standing there as we walk closer. I hear the familiar “Hello Freak.” that Sally Donovan says every time she sees me.</p><p>  “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” I inform her.</p><p>  “Why?”</p><p>  “I was invited.”</p><p>  “Why?”</p><p>  “I think he wants me to take a look.”</p><p>  “Well, you know what <em>I</em> think, don’t you?”</p><p>  I lift the police tape and go underneath to the other side. “Always, Sally. I even know you didn’t make it home last night.” I tell her. She just gives me a cold, dead stare. Then she turns her attention towards John.</p><p>  “Who’s this?” She asks, with a nod in John’s direction.</p><p>  “Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson - Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend.” I say, introducing the two.</p><p>  “A colleague, how’d you get a colleague??” She asks me then turns to John and asks him if I followed him home, which I think is ridiculous and so does John.</p><p>  John looks at me and says “Look, would it be better if I just -” but I don’t let him finish.</p><p>  “Nope!” I say, lifting the police tape so he can come in with me.</p><p>  Sally lifts her walkie-talkie up to her mouth and says into it “Freak’s here. Bringing him in.” She leads us towards the door of the house. We stop just outside the house as a man who’s wearing a blue crime scene coverall walks out the front door while taking off his gloves. It’s Anderson.</p><p>  “Anderson! Here we are again.” I say.</p><p>  “It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated.” He tells me. “Are we clear on that?”</p><p>  “Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?”</p><p>  That last question annoyed him. “Don’t pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that.”</p><p>  “Your deodorant told me that.”</p><p>  “My deodorant?”</p><p>  “Yes, it’s for men -”</p><p>  “Of course it’s for men, I’m wearing it!” Anderson exclaims.</p><p>  “So is Sergeant Donovan.” This causes the two of them to share a panicked look. “Oh! And I think it just vapourised! May I go in?”</p><p>  “You listen to me, okay? Whatever you’re trying to imply -” He says to me while shaking his head.</p><p>  “I’m not implying anything.” I interrupt. “I’m sure Sally just came round for a lovely little chat and happened to stay over.” I give a quick little glance in Sally’s direction. “And I assume scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees -” and with that, I go inside with John directly behind me.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  We find Lestrade putting on some of the crime scene coveralls in one of the many rundown rooms of the house. I toss a pair of coveralls at John. “You’ll need to put these on,” I tell him.</p><p>  “Who’s this?” Lestrade asks me, looking at John.</p><p>  “He’s with me,” I tell him.</p><p>  “Yeah, but who is he?”</p><p>  “I said, he’s with me.”</p><p>  John is putting his coveralls on and he looks at me, realizing that I’m not doing the same. “Aren’t you going to put one on?” He asks me. I don’t answer him, I just give him a look.</p><p>  “So, where are we?” I ask Lestrade.</p><p>  “Upstairs.” He replies.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  As we’re walking up the stairs, Lestrade tells me “I can give you two minutes.”.</p><p>  “I may need longer,” I say as I’m pulling on some white rubber gloves.</p><p>  Lestrade starts to give me some details. “Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards - we’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long - some kids found her.” We walk into the most rundown room of the house and in the middle of the room, we see Jennifer Wilson, dressed in all pink, laying face down on the floor, dead. John looks shocked, but I’m eager to start looking at the body. I’m in my element now.</p><p>  “Shut up,” I say quietly.</p><p>  “I didn’t say anything,” Lestrade tells me.</p><p>  “You were thinking. It’s annoying.” Lestrade and John look at each other and Lestrade rolls his eyes as I advance towards the body. </p><p>  Now it’s time for me to start making deductions. I crouch down so I can get a closer look. I look at the hand that Jennifer used to scratch “Rache” into the floorboards. She was left-handed. “Rache” is German for revenge, but I don’t think that’s what she was trying to write. I deduce that she was trying to write “Rachel” but she died before she could finish. I crouch down and run my hand along her back. Wet. I find her white umbrella underneath her. Dry. I run my fingers underneath her coat collar. Wet. I bring out my mini magnifying glass to examine her jewelry. First, I look at her bracelet. Clean. Next, her necklace. Also clean. Then I look at her wedding ring. Dirty. I deduce that she was unhappily married for 10+ years. I pull the wedding band off her finger. The outside is dirty, but the inside is clean, so it is regularly removed. I put it back on her finger. I deduce that she was a serial adulterer.</p><p>  “Got anything?” Lestrade asks, breaking the silence.</p><p>  I pull off my gloves as I stand back up. “Not much,” I reply.</p><p>  “She’s German.” We hear from a voice in the doorway. We all turn around to find Anderson standing there. “Rache is German for Revenge. She could be trying to tell us something.”</p><p>  I pull out my phone and start typing on it. I walk over to the door without looking up from what I’m doing. “Yes, thank you for your input,” I say to Anderson just as I close the door in his face.</p><p>  “She’s German?” Lestrade asks me.</p><p>  “Of course she’s not,” I reply. “She’s from out of town though. Planned to spend a single night in London, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.”</p><p>  “Sorry, obvious?” John asks.</p><p>  “What about the message?” Lestrade asks, motioning at the word scratched on the floor.</p><p>  I turn to John and ask “Dr. Watson, what do you think?”</p><p>  “Of the message?” He replies, confused.</p><p>  “Of the body. You’re a medical man.”</p><p>  “You know, we have a whole team outside -” Lestrade informs me.</p><p>  I cut him off. “They won’t work with me.”</p><p>  “I’m breaking every rule letting <em>you</em> in here.”</p><p>  “Yes, because you need me.”</p><p>  Lestrade glowers at me for a moment then says “Yes I do. God help me.”</p><p>  “Dr. Watson,” I say, once again turning towards John. John turns to look at Lestrade, asking permission.</p><p>  “Oh, do as he says. Help yourself.” Lestrade tells him.</p><p>  Lestrade leaves the room and we hear him tell Anderson to keep everyone out for a few minutes. John crouches down by the body and I do the same on the other side. “Well?” I ask him.</p><p>  “What am I doing here?” He asks in return.</p><p>  “Helping me make a point.” We’re talking in whispers now.</p><p>  “I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”</p><p>  “Yeah, but this is more fun.”</p><p>  “Fun?? There’s a woman lying dead.”</p><p>  “Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper,” I say as Lestrade walks back into the room.</p><p>  “Asphyxiation probably. Passed out, and choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her - could’ve been a seizure, possibly drugs.”</p><p>  “You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.” I say.</p><p>  “She’s one of the suicides. The fourth one?” John asks.</p><p>  “Sherlock, two minutes I said. Need anything you’ve got.” Lestrade says.</p><p>  Ah, yes. Time for me to go into detail about my deductions, my favourite bit. “Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person going by her clothes - I’d guess something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. She’s travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay for one night - that’s obvious from the size of her suitcase -”</p><p>  “Suitcase?” Lestrade asks, interrupting.</p><p>  “Suitcase, yes,” I reply. “She’s been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers, but none of them have known she was married -”</p><p>  “For God’s sake. If you’re just making this up-” Lestrade exclaims.</p><p>  “Her wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring - state of her marriage, right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside - that means it’s regularly removed; the only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work - look at her nails, she doesn’t work with her hands - so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover - she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over time - so more likely a string of them. Simple!”</p><p>  “Brilliant!” John expresses and both Lestrade and I look at him. “Sorry.”</p><p>  “Cardiff?” Lestrade asks, motioning for me to continue.</p><p>  “Obvious, isn’t it?” I say.</p><p>  “It’s not obvious to me,” John says.</p><p>  “Dear God, what’s it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring. Her coat!” All three of us look towards her coat. “It’s slightly damp - she’s been in heavy rain within the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London at that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She turned it up against the wind! She’s got an umbrella in her left pocket but it’s unused and dry. Not just wind, strong wind - too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she’s staying overnight so she must have come a decent distance. But she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours, cos her coat hasn’t dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?” I hold up my phone to show both men the screen. “Cardiff.”</p><p>  “That’s fantastic!” John exclaims again, and both Lestrade and I look at him (again).</p><p>  “Do you know that you do that out loud?” I ask him.</p><p>  “Sorry, I’ll shut up.” He replies quickly.</p><p>  “No, it’s fine,” I say.</p><p>  “Why do you keep saying "suitcase"?” Lestrade asks.</p><p>  “Yeah, where is it? She must have a phone or an organizer - we can find out who Rachel is.” I reply while looking around the room.</p><p>  “She was writing Rachel?”</p><p>  “No, she was leaving an angry note in German - of course she was writing Rachel! No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait till she was dying to write it…”</p><p>  “How do you know she had a suitcase?”</p><p>  “Back of her right leg. Tiny splashes on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her, with her right hand - you don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. A case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag. So we know she was staying one night. Now, where is it - what have you done with it?”</p><p>  “There wasn’t a case,” Lestrade states plainly. This causes me to stop and turn towards Lestrade.</p><p>  “...Say that again.” I tell him.</p><p>  “There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase here.” He repeats. <em>What?? </em>I’ve rushed past him out into the hall, wheels spinning in my head.</p><p>  “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase - was there a suitcase in this house?” I yell, running throughout the house.</p><p>  “Sherlock! There was no case!” Lestrade yells after me.</p><p>  “But they take the poison themselves. They chew and swallow the pills <em>themselves</em>, there are clear signs - even you lot couldn’t miss them.” I say, lost in my thoughts. I start descending the stairs again.</p><p>  “Right, yeah, thanks - <em>and</em>?” </p><p>  “...It’s murder. All of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings - serial killings. We’ve got a serial killer. Love those, there’s always something to look forward to!” I exclaim, running down the stairs now.</p><p>  “Why are you saying that?” Lestrade asks me.</p><p>  “Where’s her case? Come on, where is it? Did she eat it? Someone else was here - and they took the case.” I pause for a moment, realizing something. “So the killer must have driven her here - forgot the case was in the car…”</p><p>  “Maybe she checked into her hotel, left her case there?” John suggests.</p><p>  “Nope, she never made it to her hotel Look at her hair - colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she’d never have left a hotel with her hair still like -” and then I stopped. “Oh. <em>Oh</em>.” I start going down the stairs, fast.</p><p>  “Sherlock? What? What is it?” Lestrade asks with concern.</p><p>  “Serial killers, always hard. You’ve got to wait for them to make a mistake…”</p><p>  “We can’t just <em>wait!</em>” Lestrade exclaims.</p><p>  “Oh, we’re done waiting. Look at her! Really, look! Houston, we have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff, find Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends - find Rachel -”</p><p>  “Of course, yes. But what mistake??” Lestrade interrupts.</p><p>  “Pink!” I exclaim, rushing out of the house, completely forgot about John and leaving him behind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This chapter is sort of a recap of John and Mycroft's first meeting.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys! I'm sorry it's been so long since I've posted a chapter, I wasn't feeling very motivated to write. Hopefully, this somewhat long chapter makes up for it (: I wanted to get this chapter out to you today because I'm leaving to go camping for a few days. I will work on the next chapter as soon as I get back, I promise. Thank you so much for reading and as always, constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated.<br/>Enjoy,<br/>-Mack ♥️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>(John’s P.O.V.)</p><p> </p><p>  I’m still looking down the stairs where Sherlock stood just a few moments ago, confused by his last word before he left. What did he mean by “<em>Pink”</em>?? Everyone in the building is shoving past me now to get into the room with the body and I hear Anderson say “Alright everyone - let’s get on with it!”. I feel so lost and humiliated, so I start to limp down the stairs.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  When I get outside as I look around for Sherlock, I notice that everyone’s moving about now. It’s like everyone and everything was paused before, so they could let Sherlock do his work. I’m still looking for Sherlock when I see Sally Donovan talking to another police officer. When she sees me, she gives me a sort of sympathetic look.</p><p>  “He’s gone.” She tells me.</p><p>  “Who - Sherlock Holmes?” I ask.</p><p>  “Yeah, he just took off - he does that.”</p><p>  “Is he coming back?”</p><p>  “Didn’t look like it.” She replies. She turns back to the officer she was talking to before I came outside.</p><p>  I feel even more humiliated than before. He just left?? “Right… right, yes sorry.” I say, sort of to myself, as I turn to go. I stop as I realize that I have no clue where I am. I turn back around and ask “Um, where am I?”</p><p>  “Brixton,” Sally says plainly.</p><p>  “...Where would I get a cab? It’s just… well, uh, my leg…” I ask, trailing off. It hurts to be this lost and helpless, but I hide it like a good soldier.</p><p>  “Try the main road.” She suggests. </p><p>  “Thanks,” I say as I start to walk away.</p><p>  “But your not his friend,” She says from behind me. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”</p><p>  “Me, uh, I’m - I’m nobody. I’ve just met him.”</p><p>  “Okay, a bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy.” She pauses while I give her a confused look and ask her why. “You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He <em>likes</em> it. He gets off on it. Weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”</p><p>  “Why would he do that?” I ask, staring at her.</p><p>  “Because he’s a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored.”</p><p>  “Donovan!” Lestrade calls from the doorway of the house.</p><p>  “Coming!” She replies, walking towards the house. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.” She repeats, leaving me standing there, staring after her and wondering if what she said could possibly be true.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  I’ve made my way over to the main road and I’m trying to catch a cab. There are so many people pushing past me and none of the cabs are stopping. As I’m trying to walk through the busy street, I hear a telephone ringing. I look around to try and find where it’s coming from. I turn towards a little convenience store where there's a payphone ringing. When an employee went to pick it up, it stopped. I continued walking down the street. I’m about to cross the street when a telephone booth starts ringing. Could they be trying to contact me? No, that’s stupid. I walk past it and it stops ringing. I walk back over to it and it starts ringing again. This is strange. I go into the booth and pick up the phone.</p><p>  “Hello?” I say when I pick up the phone.</p><p>  “There is a security camera at the top right corner of the building opposite you. Do you see it?” The voice on the phone tells me. I have no clue who this is.</p><p>  “I’m sorry, who is this? Who’s speaking?” I ask.</p><p>  “Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?” The voice repeats.</p><p>  “Yeah, I see it.”</p><p>  “Watch.” The voices commands as the camera moves to point me in another direction. “There is another camera on the footbridge to your left. Do you see it?” The next camera moves to point at the next camera. “And finally, at the top of the streetlamp two along, on your right.”</p><p>  “How are you doing that?” I ask, baffled.</p><p>  “Get into the car, Dr. Watson.” The voice instructs as a big, black limousine pulls over next to the phone box. “I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.” He finishes and then the line goes dead. A man gets out of the car and opens the door to the backseat for me. I hesitate for a moment, but then decide to get in the car because I have no other choice.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  When I get in, I notice that there’s already a woman sitting in the seat beside mine. She’s a very attractive, young woman and she’s busy typing away on her phone. I’m very confused right now because I thought I was attracted to Sherlock and now I think I might be attracted to her, but I’m not sure of anything anymore. I think I might be bisexual...</p><p>  “Hello,” I say after a while.</p><p>  “Hi.” She says, looking up quickly and flashing me a small smile.</p><p>  “So, what’s your name then?”</p><p>  “Uh…” She pauses for a moment, thinking. “Anthea.”</p><p>  “Is that your real name?”</p><p>  “No.” She says, giving me another small smile.</p><p>  “I’m John,” I inform her.</p><p>  “Yes, I know.” </p><p>  “Is there any point in asking where I’m going?”</p><p>  “None at all, John.” She says with a little laugh.</p><p>  “...Okay.” I reply, putting an end to our small conversation.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  The limo pulls into a creepy, abandoned warehouse. The driver opens my door and I get out of the car. I see a man leaning on an umbrella across from a chair.</p><p>  “Have a seat, John.” The man instructs, using his umbrella to point at the chair.</p><p>  “You know, I’ve got a phone. Very clever, all that, but you could just phone me... on my phone.” I inform him.</p><p>  “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place.” He motions around the room with his umbrella. “Your leg must be hurting, sit down.”</p><p>  “I don’t want to sit down.”</p><p>  “You don’t seem very afraid.”</p><p>  “You don’t seem very frightening.”</p><p>  “Ah, yes.” He laughs but then becomes serious again. “The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think. What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?”</p><p>  “I don’t have one. I barely know him. I just met him... yesterday.” I say.</p><p>  “And since yesterday you’ve moved in with him, and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” He says. Bloody hell, why does everyone keep saying things like this? Is it that obvious that I’m attracted to Sherlock? I’m sure it was just a joke… right?</p><p>  “Who are you?” I decided to ask him, changing the subject.</p><p>  “An interested party.” He replies.</p><p>  “Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”</p><p>  “You’ve met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I’m the closest thing Sherlock Holmes is capable of having to a friend.”</p><p>  “And what’s that?”</p><p>  “An enemy.” The man states.</p><p>  “An <em>enemy</em>?” I question, almost laughing.</p><p>  “In his mind, certainly. If you asked him he’d probably say his arch enemy. He does love to be dramatic...” He replies.</p><p>  “Well thank God you’re above all that,” I say sarcastically as my phone beeps. I pull it out of my jacket pocket and glance at the screen: a text. It says “Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH”.</p><p>  “I hope I’m not distracting you.” The man says.</p><p>  “You’re not distracting me at all, no,” I reply, putting my phone back in my pocket.</p><p>  “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”</p><p>  “Uh, I could be wrong, but I <em>think</em> that’s none of your business.”</p><p>  “It could be.”</p><p>  “It really couldn’t,” I say, shaking my head.</p><p>  “If you do move into... umm…” He pulls a small notebook out of his jacket pocket. “Two-hundred and twenty-one B, Baker Street, I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money, on a regular basis, to ... ease your way.” He tells me, putting the book away.</p><p>  “Why?” I ask.</p><p>  “Because you’re not a rich man.”</p><p>   “In exchange for what?”</p><p>  “Information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d feel…” He pauses for a moment. “Uncomfortable with. Just, tell me what he’s up to.” He finishes.</p><p>  “Why?” I ask, feeling like it’s the hundredth time I’ve asked that question tonight.</p><p>  “I worry about him. Constantly.” He states plainly.</p><p>  “That’s nice of you.”</p><p>  “But I would prefer, for various reasons, that my concern went… unmentioned. We have what you might call, a difficult relationship.” There’s silence as I stare at him stonily, but the silence is broken as my phone beeps again. There’s another text. It says “If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH”.</p><p>  “No,” I say, just as much to the phone as to this man.</p><p>  “But I haven’t mentioned a figure.” He replies.</p><p>  “Don’t bother,” I tell him flatly.</p><p>  He laughs. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”</p><p>  “No, I’m not!” I say a bit too quickly. “I’m just not… interested.”</p><p>  “‘Trust issues’, it says here…” The man says, pulling out his notebook again.</p><p>  “What is that?” I ask after staring at the notebook for a few seconds. </p><p>  “Could it be,” He continues, ignoring me. “That you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?”</p><p>  “Who says I trust him?” </p><p>  “You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily…”</p><p>  “Are we done?” I burst, getting angry now.</p><p>  “...You tell me.” He tells me as I cock my head at him. I turn around and start walking away, but the man continues to speak. “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. But I can see from your left hand, that isn’t going to happen.” This makes me stop in my tracks and whip around to face him.</p><p>  “My - my what?” I stammer.</p><p>  “Show me.” He commands, walking over to me as I put my hand up for him to see. He takes my wrist and twists my hand around slightly - it was not intimate, but sort of like a forensics examination. “Remarkable.” He says, releasing my hand.</p><p>  “What is?” I ask.</p><p>  “Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars… When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”</p><p>  “What’s wrong with my hand?” I ask, nodding down at it.</p><p>  “You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand.” He says, consulting his notebook. “Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service…”</p><p>  “Who the hell are you? How do you know that??” I question, getting really frustrated now.</p><p>  “Sack her, she’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now, but your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson - you miss it.” He snaps his notebook shut and gives me the wintriest smile. “Welcome back.” He turns to leave and starts walking away. “Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson.” He tells me just before he goes out the door.</p><p>  My phone beeps again as Anthea comes over to me. “I’m to take you home.” She informs me. I’m not listening to her, instead, I’m looking at my phone screen. Another text that says “Could be dangerous. -SH”. I look from the text to my hand, which is not shaking. Well I’ll be damned…</p><p>  “Address?” Anthea asks me, getting impatient.</p><p>  “Uh…” I look at her, deciding. “Baker Street. 221B Baker Street… but I have to stop somewhere first.” I follow her to the car and get in.</p><p>*  *  *</p><p>  We pull up in front of the entrance to my old flat. I get out of the car and go inside. I unlock the door to my flat and grab a couple of things: my laptop, a jacket, and of course, my gun. When I get back into the car, Anthea is still typing away on her phone. We continue driving for about ten minutes and then we stop outside of 221B.</p><p>  “Listen, umm, could you maybe <em>not</em> tell your boss that this is where I went?” I ask her before getting out.</p><p>  “Sure.” She replies, without even looking up from her phone.</p><p>  “You already have, haven’t you?”</p><p>  “Yeah.” She says, giving me a sympathetic smile before turning back to her phone. I open the car door but I hesitate.</p><p>  “Do you, uh, ever get any free time?” I ask her.</p><p>  “Oh, yeah, lots.” She laughs. She notices I’m still sitting there. “Bye.”</p><p>  “...Okay.” I mumble as I get out of the car and walk over to the door of 221B Baker Street.</p>
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